


our vast yearning

by RoamthePen



Series: thy horrors hail, thy spirit anguished [1]
Category: The Prince of Egypt (1998)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Drama, Gen, Heavy Angst, Rameses is WAY more drunk this time round, and Moses feels kinda guilty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoamthePen/pseuds/RoamthePen
Summary: The Nile is tainted red with the blood of two brothers. Its perpetual flow drains the life from them both, even if one is left still breathing.





	our vast yearning

** _“I know that I am nothing new. There’s so much more than me and you. But brother, how we must atone, before we turn to stone.”— Ingrid Michaelson_ **

* * *

Moses does not intend to wander into the palace. His legs carry him there, almost as a mother ibis carries her offspring back to nest. He is weary from the many nights of unrest, and his surroundings are covered in a hazy red mist, reminding him of all the death and blood and pain he has just bestowed upon the land in which he grew from a child. He is not certain whether this mist is borne out of his own festering guilt, or truly a product of all the chaos he has wrought. 

There is also a strange coldness that echoes through the halls. Perhaps this has always been so, yet he never noticed it. As he never heard the cries of his people, as he never understood their desperate pleas. Or perhaps this is not an antecedent, perhaps this sickness has been caused by him.

_No. _He thinks. Not perhaps. This sickness _has_ been caused by him. It is but another merciless symptom of his sacred mission. God has gifted Egypt with fire and disease; for frigid is the Lord’s mind, and cold is his heart toward the hand of pharaoh. Moses knows this to be truth.

He trails his fingers across the cracked alabaster pillars, the ragged point of its break sliding painfully over the delicate skin. Though, he does not pull away. If anything, he presses down harder, until the skin splits and he feels blood begin to spill down his wrist.

Moses raises his hand to the front of his face and watches as the blood drips farther down his forearm. It reminds him of the first pestilence. _And thus, let it be so, the Nile river shall run red with blood. May death befall the ever swimming fish, and may all of Egypt drink not. Thy word be thy command._

It sends a chilling shiver down his spine and makes him sick to his stomach. A sick that causes the very core of his being to turn inside out, a guilt that urges him to claw at his skin until he is clean of all the damage he has caused... until he is clean of all the damage that _will_ be caused if pharoah does not surrender. But he cannot let himself think of that. Not yet. 

Moses lets his head fall back, revelling in the dull pain that is shooting up his arm. It feels good. It makes him feel alive. He doesn't know what that says about him.

His wistful gaze turns to the crumbling imitation of his false family. Yet, his eyes linger on Tuya, his once mother. She was utterly beautiful; effortlessly majestic. It was impossible to replicate the true magnitude of her presence, a mere statue not even half of the woman she was. Whenever she embraced him, he felt as if she encompassed all of his soul, every part of him, as if there was nowhere safer than encased in her gentle arms.

She smelled of myrrh and cinnamon. And sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can feel the scent tickle his nose. It is but a sigh of air, and before he can cling to it, before he can engrain every detail of it in his mind, it is gone.

He doesn't even know what happened to her.

“She fell ill in the night.”

Moses spins around. His heels making a comical screech on the earth as he turns. Rameses stands a distance away, most of his face and body shrouded in the thick shadows that appear to now encapsulate the entirety of Egypt. Giving the land an emptiness that is not remedied when the light of day comes to pass.

“She died within hours.” He says.

Moses lets the words wash over him, but does not absorb them. He cannot. His knees feel weak beneath him, so he tries to regain control of himself before his body decays amidst the immensity of his contrition. The night is much too early to lose his sense.

There is an evident slur to Rameses’ voice, and a chalice of wine dangles lazily in his fingertips at his side. He leans against a pillar, his body heavy with the sloppiness of drink, and Moses thinks he can catch the glint of lapis sitting on Rameses’ right hand. The gemstone gleams in the grim starlight, even from within the shadows. That ring had never truly belonged to Moses, he had given it back, but he cannot help the sorrowful pang that pierces his chest when he sees it.

He hates it when his body betrays him.

“You’re drunk.” It is not a question.

“Blissfully.” Rameses spreads his arms, and Moses is sure he doesn't imagine the blurry smile that tips the corners of his mouth upward. “You’re lucky. I feel less inclined to gut you where you stand.” 

Rameses has never been one to overindulge in drink. Rather, the Rameses of their youth was never one to overindulge in drink. He used to be the one giving Moses agonizingly long lectures on Moses’ more than questionable activities. Moses _did_ get himself into a fair amount of trouble back then, Rameses usually on the receiving end of Seti’s wrath. 

_It was such fun though_, he thinks, with a rather strong sense of detached fondness.

However, now, he is no longer sure of the habits Rameses has fallen into. After all, Moses has most certainly grown out of his old ones.

Moses doesn’t smile back. Instead, he sighs. “Rameses—“

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.” Rameses takes a stumbling step forward, his face now entirely visible in the dwindling torchlight. “_Rameses, let my people go!” _He mocks. Moses can't stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Did you know that you're incredibly annoying?”

"Tis’ my natural state.” He says, voice so dry that he nearly chokes on it. He is shaking his head, his body in a state of utter and surreal disbelief. After everything, they still stand here and bicker as if nothing has changed. 

_ How did we manage this?  _

Moses knows that if he doesn't persevere tonight, he will only have to begin again come daybreak. This is the only reason he can muster his remaining resolve. “Rameses, can’t you see that this must end? Look around you, look at all the innocents suffering. Look at your kingdom crumbling to the ground. If only you would just—”

“--Moses,” Rameses slinks down a pillar and slumps against it, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not tonight.”

Moses stares hard, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He thinks of Miriam and Aaron waiting for him in their home, (which is really nothing more than a hovel made of washed up sludge from the annual flood.) Aaron’s battered back will be tender with a fresh set of lashes, and Miriam will be tending to his wounds using holy water and their waning supply of healing lavender. Her gentle song rising through a world of endless torment and despair, the only world they've ever known.

He thinks of Tziporrah, and the being that clings to precious life just inside her growing belly. He thinks of her worried glances and the way she shields herself from the dangers that await her beyond the perishing door. She is already so selfless in protecting their vulnerable child.

Yet, what is so different this night than the last? Than a week prior? Their quarrel rages on, with a verbal treatise not yet reached. To the Hebrews, this is just one more night of the many that have come before. The star-filled sky remaining an immutable force, shining down upon them like it always has. Come morning, another day of blistering heat and barbarous labour. Unvoiced freedom hanging just beyond their frail grasp.

Truly, what _is _one more night? 

Moses takes a few steps forward and slides his body down the pillar next to Rameses. Their shoulders brush against each other like leaves blowing across the earth in a harsh wind. Woven fabric against bronzed skin. “Alright.”

Rameses jerks his arm away, turning an incredulous glare toward Moses. His eyes taking a second too long to focus. “And just what do you think you are doing?”

“Waiting till morning,” Moses smirks. “Then I’ll ask again.”

“Unbelievable.” Rameses lets out a startled laugh. “You are unbelievable.”

“Now, Rameses, I know that you think highly of me. But you don’t need to sing my praises everywhere you go.” Moses says, barely keeping his smile at bay. Now, _this_ is familiar ground. “People will start asking questions.”

Rameses drops his head between his knees, a strategic hand coming up to cover his face, rubbing at his eyes. “I can’t believe this.” The voice is muffled from between his fingers, but Moses can't miss the exasperation in his tone. “You can not give me a moment of peace?”

“Where would the fun be in that? Annoying you is my favourite pastime.”

Rameses takes a long gulp of wine, swishing the contents around in his mouth before swallowing. Moses’ smile falters at Rameses’ expression. The headdress atop his brow reminds him of Seti, and it ages him by years. Moses’ discomfort increases until his subconscious shifts his weight away.

_“Where were you?” _Rameses hisses, and Moses jumps at the suddenness of the outburst. His voice breaks and he once again covers his face with his free hand. He lets out a stuttering exhale, as if he is struggling to catch a breath, as if he is ashamed.

Moses ignores Rameses’ show of emotion. He doesn’t know what would happen if he acknowledged it. He doesn’t want to know. There is no doubt that it would make it worse for both of them, and infinitely more uncomfortable. “Oh, nowhere overly exciting. Just frolicking about in the desert is all.” He says instead.

“_Moses, _take something seriously for once in your forsaken life,” They both know that most everything in this life is dire now. But even spending just minutes together, they are already slipping into old habits. Rameses gestures to him, his sloppy hands waving in Moses’ direction. “You sit here in your Hebrew rags and you carry your wooden stick in your hand like a fool, yet you have the gall to come here and _speak _to me. As if you have not just brought about all of this destruction.” 

“How is it me causing this destruction if it could all be ceased by you simply letting my people go?”

It is silent for a single moment. Moses can almost hear the sand shifting beneath the palace floors.

Then. “_Simply!?” _Rameses roars, and throws the chalice of wine hurtling through the air until it shatters against the adjacent pillar. Crimson splattering against the white stone like a rapidly spreading infection.

Moses cringes. “That was a waste of perfectly good wine.”

“Out.” Rameses says, rising to his feet. His unsteady body sways in the dry air. Moses rises as well, but does not leave. His wary eyes track Rameses’ movements, as if he were a ravenous crocodile, lingering just underneath the surface of the water, stalking his prey. “GET OUT!”

“No.” Moses says.

Rameses takes an indignant breath and stumbles toward Moses. His face now mere inches from his own. “I said, get _OUT!” _He yells, but Moses is pinned against the pillar. Rameses’ heavy hands pressing down on his shoulders. “_GET OUT! _Get out!” His yells echo off the walls, the sound chasing empty space until it quiets into a soft chant. Moses is still pinned against the pillar, Rameses' violent movements jarring his body, painful crack after painful crack of his head against the alabaster stone.

Eventually, Rameses sinks back down to his knees.

Moses has never seen him this intoxicated before, and he is beginning to think that perhaps he _should _leave. To at least give him some privacy. The Rameses of their youth would have been mortified at this behaviour.

Moses has already turned away when he hears a small voice behind him. “You left me.” He dips his chin in Rameses’ direction, not enough to see his face. “You were supposed to be here, by my side. That is how it was always meant to be. You said that you would always be here.”

Moses shuts his eyes, drowning in the magnitude of his regret before he turns back around. Rameses is looking up at him with an open expression that Moses has not seen adorn his features in so long. It feels as if the pit of his stomach has taken occupancy in his throat.

“Why?” Rameses asks. Then he shakes his head, his breath slowing and quickening at odd intervals. “I should have ran after you. I should have tried harder to stop you from leaving, but it all happened much too fast. And I could not bring myself to move.”

As Rameses speaks, Moses lays his staff down and returns to Rameses’ side. The sound of Rameses’ voice a tether to the life he once lived, drawing him back into memories that seemed so far from reach in the moments prior. It is as if he is rejoining a part of himself that he thought he had abandoned long ago; _the prince of Egypt. _A person that he has been for much longer than he has not. Someone who aches for the comfort of his brother’s warm presence on the most lonely of nights.

“When mother died…Father…” Rameses pauses, glancing down at his hand, and then over at the pillar he threw his wine chalice at.“…I need more wine…” He tries to bring his body up on the slick surface of the stone, his uncoordinated hands grasping at nothing, and to Moses’ great surprise, he is doing much better than he had thought he would.

Moses yanks at his arm and he slumps back down, his back hitting against the stone. It does not seem to bother him. But then again, he is practically incoherent. _“Noooo._ You most certainly do not.”

Rameses turns another indignant glare upon him, and it is all Moses can do to hide his snicker. It truly is not the time, but the look of utter petulance on his face is so ridiculous that it’s difficult not to tell him how stupid he looks. He bites his bottom lip, for he is quite certain that Rameses will rip his tongue out his mouth if he catches Moses laughing at him. That used to be a joke between them, but Moses fears that Rameses may hold true to all those childhood promises if Moses gives him the opportunity now.

“How _dare_ you?”

“How dare I?”

“Yes, how dare you.” Rameses says. “This is _my_ palace, and may Ra smite me down if I cannot drink as much of the wine in it as I wish.”

“Have you gone completely mad?” Moses raises his eyebrows when Rameses tries to push himself up again. He yanks him back down. “You’re acting like Hotep on the eve of Tekh! Remember? If you keep this up you’ll be draped across the statue of Hathor singing your marital vows through till the morning!”

Moses recalls the annual festival of Tekh not as clearly as he knows Rameses does. His memories are far better formed from the ones he attended when they were still children. As he grew, and they came of age, Moses took full advantage of his newly acquired privilege and drank as much golden ale as he could get his hands on. Much to the dismay of both Rameses and Tuya.

Though, as a child, he remembers how the affluence of the sacred night burned like an eternal flame. The nobles drowned themselves in drink and sustenance, their riches glowing against bronzed skin as they worshipped the goddess of drink. He would lose Rameses in the never-ending crowd of dancing and drunken laughter while the lords and ladies doted upon both of the young princes. Their father and mother watching over the kingdom with regal satisfaction.

Back then, it seemed like they would never die.

“Ra help us if Hotep ever finds where we hid his stupid scarab amulet that he made us clean whenever we disobeyed his orders.” Rameses says, his shoulders beginning to shake. It seems that he has forgotten his anger... another benefit of being incredibly intoxicated. 

Moses is jealous. Not that he would divulge that to anyone but himself. But he should have snatched Rameses' chalice when he had the chance.

“Remind me…” Moses snickers this time, unable to keep it down. “Remind me where we hid it again. I can’t remember.”

“Of course you can’t remember. You drunken jackal’s ass!” Rameses says.

“Oh, now I’m the drunk?”

“You’ve always been the drunk. I’m just temporarily stealing your sunlight.” Rameses nudges Moses’ shoulder, and it feels natural. As natural as the golden sand that carries Egypt on its mighty back. “We hid it underneath the washing station in the—“

“—In the temple of Mut behind the table of rituals.” Moses finishes. 

They both cackle, and Rameses places his hand on Moses’ shoulder. A familial gesture that sharpens the shining blade that is piercing his heart amid their shared laughter. Yet, somehow, it also thickens the thread that is mending the gaping hole back together once more. It feels as if all the light present in the night sky is shining down upon them. Two men that were never destined to be brothers cling to one another in the hopeless dusk, neither able to admit it.

Their laughter soon dies down, and Moses cannot help but wonder what his life would have been if he were raised alongside Miriam and Aaron, however impossible that is. Days upon days of endless torment; hopelessness. Yet he cannot fathom it, he does not wish to. It is not, he realizes, because he doesn’t want to endure their suffering. He already knows that he could not have. It is for one reason only; Rameses is his lifeline. His tether to sanity. The one person who has been eternal since his thread of memory begins.

Moses stares at Rameses, and Rameses stares at Moses. Their eyes gleaming bright with a predestined joy gone unshared for far too long. The missing piece of his heart filled, even if only for this one eve.

“I wonder if it’s still there.” Rameses says.

It is silent. A slow, knowing smile spreading across both of their faces.

They push themselves up, Moses grabbing Rameses’ shoulders and hoisting him with a grunt. His skin is warm to the touch, almost hot. And it is slick with cold sweat. Rameses will undoubtedly regret this tomorrow, perhaps even make himself sick with rage alongside his hangover. But Moses does not want this moment to be tainted with what is to come.

He rushes ahead, leaving his staff forgotten on the earth, eager to go on a hunt in the palace with a man that he has missed more dearly than he ever knew a human being was capable of. They have both forgotten the horrors that tore them apart, but he stops short when he does not hear the soft, unsteady pad of footsteps trailing behind him.

Moses turns, and Rameses has not moved from the spot where Moses helped him to his feet. It looks as if he is leaning, arm outstretched against the pillar so he does not fall over. It is all too sudden; his breath has become so heavy that it echoes through the empty hall, and the sound is deafening in the eerie hush of the sleeping city. Moses is not certain whether he was just not paying attention earlier, or if Rameses has become worryingly pale in mere seconds.

“What is it?” Moses asks. Habitual concern etched in his voice, becoming all the more sincere when Rameses reaches up and touches his throat. He looks confused, almost as confused as Moses feels.

“I don’t—oh.“ Rameses glances at the wine that is still spilling down the side of the pillar and huffs out a breath, his head rolling weakly back to meet Moses’ eyes. “Poison.”

_“What?”_

Rameses’ eyelids flutter closed and he sways on his feet, as one does when they let their entire body go limp in a harsh wind. Moses hurtles forward to catch him when his knees buckle and guides him to lay on the ground. Rameses’ moan sounds like it is half from disbelief and half from pain, and Moses’ hands hover over him; frantic, helpless, unsure what to do.

Still utterly confused.

“Well, this is not ideal.” Rameses says, letting out a stuttering laugh.

“Ahh, what do I—“ Moses stops. His entire body stiffens and the blood running through his veins turns to ice. Rameses _knows _Egypt is going to succumb to the pestilence, resolution is so near already. The nation is crumbling to its very foundations. He wouldn’t… _“Did you do this to yourself?”_

Rameses shakes his head and makes a strangled sound which may have been another laugh, though it is devoid of everything true laughter is meant to be. “I wish I had the foresight.”

Moses shakes his head, a mirror of Rameses’ previous movement, only more frantic. A terrible feeling of dread and panic washing over him, like he is drowning in the wake of his ill-won victory. His breaths are beginning to come in sporadic bursts of emotion that he is so desperately trying to keep concealed. _No. No. No. No. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. God wouldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t._

“Guards!” Moses shouts, as loud as his voice will allow him. It is like a torch being lit; an immediate shift to the senses. Light flooding a room that was encased in utter darkness. A princely authority consumes him, one that he has not taken on in many years. And so, he places all of the command he knows he is capable of into his voice. He had been a prince for most of his life, and that familiarity will never be taken from him. “Guards, it’s my brother! Attend to your king!”

His shouts are met with nothing. He hears not the sound of their hurried footsteps nor does he glimpse a sign of their linen clothed bodies rounding the corner. It feels as if they are the only two beings left in the entirety of Egypt, for all is completely still. Moses doesn’t realize until now that desolation has a sensation. Something that he can hear, taste, see and feel. But as he listens to the absence of his surroundings, as he tastes the bitter bile the rises from his throat, as he looks to the horizon and sees nothing but shadows shrouded in hazy mist, as he feels the dread that clings to his body like a disease; he knows that he has found the embodiment of it. And it is a void. It is a _nothingness_. And it _scares_ him. It is a cloud of evil that spreads and spreads around him until he can feel it eating him from the inside out, and all he can see is Rameses. It is all that matters.

Moses lets out a cry of frustration, his voice fraying at the edges. “Where are the damned guards?!”

“Stationed around the perimeter of the—“ Rameses coughs, and it is a horrible sound. “Stationed around the perimeter of the palace. They are not near.”

“Why aren’t they guarding you?!_ That’s their job._”

Rameses’ glare is weak. “Moses, their job is to follow my orders. And I stationed them elsewhere.” He is still slurring his words, but now it is difficult to determine whether it is from the poison or from the wine itself. Maybe both.

“_All of them?” _Moses asks.

“Yes.” He says. “Perhaps it is because _someone_ has begun a rebellion against my nation and I must form a stronghold to keep the threat away from the heart of the city. ”

“Damn it all, Rameses!” Moses is shouting even louder now, and Rameses actually flinches. “You imbecile!”

For a moment, he almost jumps up to fetch Hotep and Huy. It is a foolish instinct, but built on years and years of trust. Though, they would be no help, nor would they listen to him now. He knows so, both of them are nothing more than mindless cretins. They fumble around each other, wearing a facade of ancient knowledge and yet trembling against the weight of a power too great for them to understand. But the child within Moses longs to hide behind them, to bury his face in their sacred robes as he did so long ago, to feel as if they held the answer to all of existence just beneath their hallowed manuscripts and weathering fingertips.

He cannot go to Miriam and Aaron. Moses banishes the thought from his mind before it can even take root. He cannot ask this of them. “I’m going to retrieve someone,” He says. It will take too long to go to the perimeter of the palace, even if he sprints. Rameses has stationed his soldiers on the border of where Egyptian wealth meets the slum of the Hebrew settlement. It is far from here, even if one travels by horse. But he will find someone else _within_ the palace. A healer if he is lucky. “I’m going to retrieve someone,” He repeats, more to himself than to Rameses, and squeezes Rameses’ fingers. He means it to be reassuring.

Rameses grabs Moses’ hand in a feeble grasp. “No,” He says. “Moses… please don’t. It’s too late. Don’t… don’t leave me.”

Moses hesitates, and then he asks the question he does not wish to ask. “How long?”

“A few hours,” He replies. “Perhaps less.”

“How are you certain?”

“Oh, I don’t know Moses,” Rameses’ voice is filled with wild, unhinged venom. His pupils are dilating, and they already encapsulate most of the iris. It is the Nile swallowing the river banks following harvest. “Maybe because I paid attention to our tutors.”

“That is plenty of time then,” He says, and moves to leave again. “I’m going to find a healer.”

“No!” Rameses shouts, and it looks as if it is an immense strain to raise his voice. His strength is fading away much faster than Moses thought it would. Too fast. “What will they do for me, Moses? Truly? We both know what is coming, we have seen it. You needn’t have paid attention to our tutors to know that.”

Moses clenches his jaw so tight that the muscles strain in his neck at the pressure. But he settles his body back down beside Rameses, removing his robe and placing it beneath Rameses’ head as he does. He wears only a thin tunic underneath and shivers as the air hits his exposed neck. He's forgotten how the palace chills in the eve without the warmth maintained by the servants. That has only happened once before, and for not nearly as long.

“Who did this?” Moses asks. Watching Rameses’ chest rise up and down. It has slowed from earlier, and he knows that is not a good sign. It causes his own chest to clench in panic.

The shake of Rameses’ head is so subtle that Moses would have missed it if his eyes were not already boring holes into Rameses’ weakening form. It is a silent admittance of uncertainty, not dared to be spoken out loud. Moses does not ask again, but it is the only thought that plagues his mind. Who would dare to murder their king? Or, who would dare to murder the man who held their freedom within the possibility of his very words?

Or, perhaps this has been the solution all along, and God already knew that Moses was not the man to accomplish it. Perhaps God has another messenger. A worthier man.

_(You’ve chosen the wrong messenger!)_

_(How can I even speak to these people!?)_

_(But I was the prince of Egypt!)_

_You never were a prince of anything, though, were you?_

_Just because you thought it to be truth doesn't it make it any less of a lie._

_Everything was a lie. All of it._

The great statues and illustrations surrounding them seem to vibrate with a strange essence of primordial knowledge. As if they have an audience of omniscient eyes looking upon them in divine judgement. As if the thousands of motionless pupils have known this outcome since before the beginning of time itself, and their mocking laughter becomes yet another lash across Moses’ torn flesh. Is he the only one that can hear their scorn?

Has this room always felt so damning? He can’t remember.

_Of course this time would come._

_Of course._

A day of retribution has befallen them both. It is much too soon.

“When mother died… Father went mad with grief,” Rameses’ hoarse voice startles Moses out of his hysteria, and he glances down at the shaking form that lays beneath him. “He weakened quickly afterwards…and—“

“Don’t strain yourself. You must ration your strength.” Moses says, heedless to the fact that he is only prolonging the inevitable. Rameses is panting, each word like a blade sliding down his throat, and Moses doesn’t want to hear it. Not this night. Not ever. He need not know of the horrors that had befallen his false family while he was gone, if only to assuage the guilt. Or at least to not make it worse. It is such a foolish hope, but he doesn’t want to feel like he is covered in filth any longer.

Moses feels dirty; he feels contaminated to the very core of his being. And he knows _(he hates that he knows)_, no matter what Rameses does or doesn’t tell him, that he will never feel clean again. But my, how he _wants _to be. He longs for it. A simple, unsoiled, cleanliness. A peaceful nothing. Not the kind that is clouded with desolation and hopelessness, but a one free of guilt, somewhere where he can _let go_.

A place like that doesn’t exist. He knows that now. And unfortunately, Moses can no longer pretend that it does, can no longer pretend that it is only around the next corner. Again and again and again.

“_Let me finish_. I want… I want you to know what… what happened.” Rameses inhales, it snags in his throat and he lets out a small cough. “Father knew that death would take him soon. He… he was certain. _Ahh,_ he feared he was running out of the… the time he needed to mould me into t-the man he wanted me to be. And so, he became all the mm-more brutal. Mother… mother was not there to stay his hand.” Rameses shrugs, awkwardly from his odd position. It is rather un-kingly. Tuya used to scold them for it. “I’m actually grateful.” His swallow ends in a grimace as he gestures to the crumbling statue of Horus beside them. “Look at h-how far it has gotten me.”

Moses looks out into the horizon, for he cannot meet Rameses’ bleary gaze. The dark blanket that encapsulates the night swallows Thebes in ink, the stars reflecting back onto themselves. They are the mirror that divulges the only beauty that the night offers. A salvation that is just out of reach.

“He had the guards beat me senseless, and then after I recovered, we would begin again.”

Moses closes his eyes. The wind howls from the distant corridors within the closed section of the palace and it sounds as if a great spirit is moaning its anguish to Khonsu as he travels across the sky. “I’m sorry.”

It does not need to be spoken aloud. But both Moses and Rameses know that Seti would have been more lenient if he believed that his second son was still alive. For a reason Moses has never understood, he always had sway with their father, ever since they were rambunctious children scampering about the palace halls. A way of speaking to him that seemed to soften the old man’s heart just enough to show mercy to Rameses.

Moses wants Rameses to blame Seti for it all, to show some kind of animosity toward the man who killed so many of Moses’ people. Rameses was supposed to _understand_. He was supposed to _take his side_. That was Moses’ foolish hope when he rode back to Egypt, when he believed that Rameses was still prince, not pharaoh. But Rameses lays still, content in knowing that his father beat him relentlessly into the bitter night.

The gods of Egypt are cruel if this is truly their will.

“You could not have known.” Rameses says.

It doesn’t make sense to Moses, Rameses’ sudden apathy toward his deeds here in Egypt. At first, he thought it was the alcohol, but perhaps Rameses has known, deep down, that this eve was the beginning of the end. Perhaps he knows that he must make amends. Or some form of it.

Perhaps Moses should too. If only to lessen the weight atop his beating heart. 

“I don’t understand it,” Moses says. “How you can speak to me as we used to, and yet still treat the Hebrews with such disdain. Rameses, _I _am Hebrew.”

Rameses is silent in all but the wheezing breath that escapes his lips, it has grown louder as his breaths become slower. His body is shutting down, as an hourglass ticks until the last grain of sand falls to the other side. “I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

_“How can you say that?” _Moses asks. “How can you say that when Seti would have killed me as a babe if my birth mother had not set me adrift in the Nile?”

“Stop—“

“Any other mother could have done the same, and you would have been raised alongside a different Hebrew child. You would have cared for them as you care for me. But I would be dead, and you never would have known. How can you choose to ignore what is right in front of you?”

“I s-said stop—“

“You know this is wrong. I know you.” Moses says. “And I know that you are smart enough to see past this narrative that father spun around you so that you would do his bidding after he died. He _raised_ us— me-- to believe that my _own _people—“ He breaks off with a huff of breath and his narrowed glare dares Rameses to bring up the fact that he had accidentally called Seti ‘father’. 

“I don’t care about them,” Rameses repeats. Slower this time, each word enunciated with great regard. “I care about you.”

Moses sighs, a terrible sadness consuming his weary body. “That will never be good enough, Rameses.”

After a few moments of sitting in uncomfortable silence, Rameses’ face goes blank. As if it has lost all connection with his mind, as if he is trapped within the confines of his own body. Moses leans forward, his hands once again hovering over Rameses’ head; helpless.

His eyes refocus on Moses’ face following what feels like an eternity of strangling tension. “Wha…” He says. His features opening up in a way that startles Moses to the very base of his being. This is the last thing that he ever expected Rameses to do… A painfully bright smile begins to light Rameses’ face, his lips stretching wide around the white of his teeth. The wrinkles of age and anger smoothing before him, like the rounded sand that is collected from the bottom of the Nile. It is too pure. Too unnatural. “Moses?” He lets out a laugh of utter disbelief. He looks so damned _happy_. “Moses, you came back? I… we thought you were dead!”

Moses uses all his strength to contain the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Where…” Rameses lifts his head and the stiffening of his body is immediate, the grin draining from his face. He throws himself back and lets out a pained groan, his hands clawing at his chest. “It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.”

His whimpering chants grate against Moses’ ears like salt against an open wound, and so Moses places gentle hands on Rameses’ shoulders, finally giving them a purposeful task. “Rameses, don’t move. You’ll only make it worse. I’m here.” Rameses still looks confused and so Moses repeats himself. “I’m here. Moses is here. Try to remember where you are.”

Rameses’ bleary eyes blink up at him, as if he is being released from the haze of a terrible nightmare. He is still panting, but the breaths escape his lips in only a faint wheeze of air. “…oh.” He mumbles, seeming to come back to himself. “I’m sorry."

“Can you do something for me?” Rameses asks, his frail voice breaking, a single tear spilling down his cheek. He clenches his jaw, as if to regain his courage, or perhaps to hide his fear from Moses. But it is clear as the mid-day sun when one is standing atop the dunes east of Luxor.

“What is it?” Moses says. He has always been wary of favours, for he never liked the responsibility that is carried with them. And even though he has grown into a different man since then, he is especially wary of them this night. A man on the brink of death cares little for the burden he may place on the shoulders of the living.

“Pretend…” Rameses purses his lips, and they tremble against each other. “I want it to be like it was when… like it was when we were young. Before… before you ran away.”

Moses shakes his head. In either disagreement or denial, he is not certain. “Rameses, this isn’t—“

“—Pretend it is!” It bursts from his mouth, and he lets out a stuttering exhale. A dribble of poisoned saliva pooling at the base of his bottom lip. “Pretend it is.” He murmurs again, quieter. Weaker. “Please.”

Moses stares at Rameses. _This isn’t supposed to happen, _he thinks, _He can’t die. He can’t die. He can’t die. “_…alright.” Is all Moses can bring himself to say. Moses is frantic, but it can only be seen by the slight tremble of his hands. He shifts his body, sliding farther down against the pillar and crossing his legs out in front of him. As he does, he moves Rameses’ pliable limbs so that his head is cradled between Moses’ legs. Moses absently places his hand atop Rameses’ forehead. The cold of his skin is shocking, and it causes him to jolt his hand back before relaxing it against the chilled skin.

This is familiar. They always used to do this. Moses comforting Rameses when he was limp with despair, when Seti destroyed him time and time again. Boutades of hopelessness falling upon Rameses like the Nile flooding the weathered crops in the summertime. They would lay exactly like this, atop their balcony, gazing up at the endless night, at the tremulous light of the stars. The only thing that they both were sure of in their short lives was the certainty that they would always have one another. This is familiar. This is his _brother_. How could he have forgotten?

“Re..remember?” Rameses coughs, blood beginning to coat the corners of his mouth.

Moses reaches down and wipes the blood from Rameses’ lips with the pad of his thumb, and it mingles with the already dried blood that trailed down his wrist hours earlier. “I remember.”

_How symbolic._

“I’m sorry about the frogs.” Moses says with sudden vehemence, in lack of anything else to say and wanting desperately to fill the damning silence. It feels as if it is choking him, and he isn't even the one who is dying. Rameses had always hated frogs, and so he also feels that he _should _apologize. It is selfish, he knows, for it is only to ease his conscious if only a small amount.

Moses has been a terrible brother. To the false sibling he already knew he had, and to the ones he didn’t know existed until they had already suffered enough. How could he have failed everyone around him so?

It is still, and then Moses feels Rameses’ body begin to shake. At first, he believes it is another coughing fit, but he looks down and Rameses is laughing. Painful, jerking movements plague his form, but he is laughing nonetheless.

“Yes, you absolute bastard. That was quite cruel of you.” Rameses looks up, his eyes now shining with moisture that threatens to spill down his cheeks. This time Rameses does not try to stop it. His face looks so vulnerable that Moses almost has to cast his eyes elsewhere. He looks so young. 

Moses feels like they are children again. At a time when Rameses felt like he could tell Moses anything the world had to offer. _Anything_.

“I know that I’ve asked too much of you this night…” Rameses says. “But my son—“ He coughs once more, and this time the blood trails down his neck and drips onto the floor before Moses can wipe it away. “You must take my son with you.”

“You want me to take your son?” Moses asks, incredulous. “With the Hebrews?”

“Please.” He whispers.

Moses nods, for what else can he do? But part of him wonders how he will manage it. Surely the soldiers will not let him and all the Hebrews walk out of Egypt with their only remaining heir. Surely they will not let them walk out at all. The thought is ridiculous. God’s work must not be finished yet.

Rameses seems to be satisfied with Moses’ non-verbal answer and relaxes back into Moses’ lap. Moses can feel Rameses shaking, he feels it from within his bones. It is a bodily call for help that no one and nothing can aid. There are no potions that can lessen the pain, no sacred words that can be incanted, no divine miracle that can restore life to his feeble limbs. And Moses wishes that he could run. He wants to _hide_ from all of this. To go back to Midian and herd sheep, to wake up in the morning and feel the calm air brush against his skin like Tzipporah's sweet caress the night earlier, to do all the mundane tasks that require handling when one doesn't have servants waiting upon them night and day. Moses wants to run again. He no longer cares if that makes him a coward. 

Rameses’ breathing is so slow now that even the faint wheezing has dulled into a sound that cannot be heard unless one knows what to listen for. 

“Here.” Rameses says, his voice a rasp, a whisper of the wind. He lifts a torn piece of white linen. It is stained, but it looks as if there had been an obvious effort to remove it, the edges flayed out into one another. 

“What is that?” Moses asks.

“Our… our search parties found it,” He says. “It’s yours.”

Moses takes it in his hand and inspects the fabric, rubbing it between his fingertips. It must have torn from his kilt in the treacherous terrain. “You kept it?"

Rameses gives a weak nod. “Yes.”

They sit like that for a time; Moses’ hand absently stroking Rameses’ forehead. He has long since removed the headdress from Rameses' brow and told him to rest his eyes. To Moses' complete suprise, he listened. He can tell that Rameses still lives only by the faint shaking of his limbs and his eyelids fluttering up and down like a butterflies’ vibrant wings.

Moses lets his head drop back. He tries to focus on calming his quivering breaths when Rameses’ chest begins to heave with alarming intensity, and Moses startles, already dreading what is to come. He jerks his hand back when Rameses pitches sideways and retches onto the stone floor. It is a sickening noise, and a pool of blood spreads out beneath them. It reeks of metallic stench and alcohol. 

Rameses leans back into Moses’ legs, going limp, and he wipes Rameses’ lips with the sleeve of his tunic, settling his hand back onto his forehead.

“Mother?” Rameses asks. A soft, innocent smile tipping the corner of his lips upward. If it is possible, Moses feels like he is sinking further and further into the earth. 

Rameses' eyes will no longer open.

“No, brother,” He says, trying to be as gentle as he can. No matter what has torn them apart, Moses cannot let Rameses die alone. Cannot let him die without the comfort of his brother by his side. Even if it is a lie. This is how it's supposed to be. They were always supposed to be together. “It is Moses. I’m right here.”

“Oh, Moses,” He rasps, but he still sounds relieved, even if he can no longer remember why his eyes will not open. Moses feels weak fingers wrap around his hand and they squeeze with what little strength is left in them, strain evident on Rameses’ face. Perhaps he still knows what is coming. “…I…I don’t want to die. I—”

He breaks off before Moses can reply, his face going slack once more. But this time, his sanity does not return. “Can… can you hear her?” Rameses says. “She is _singing,_ Moses. Do you not hear her?” He is delirious, the poison addling his mind. His voice is becoming vacant. Distant. Echoing past Moses’ shoulder and mingling with the wind that blows past the empty corridors. Mingling with whatever darkness is calling to his soul. With whatever comes_ after._

It will not be long now.

Moses listens to his desolate surroundings. He feels so alone, like no one and nothing can help him from falling into darkness. Into an absence of everything. Still, he listens to the silence for his mother. Yet, he knows he hears a voice different from Rameses. He hates that he hears a voice different from Rameses.

“Yes,” Moses says. “I hear her.”

What is one more lie?

“Good,” He inhales. “Perhaps she will join us soon…”

Rameses exhales, and he does not take another breath.

_I should have known better than to question the will of Elohim._  


Moses slumps over Rameses’ body, burying his face into the cold, wet skin of his chest. He lets out a broken cry, clenching his fingers into Rameses’ shoulders. “Damn you. Damn you. Damn you.” He chants over and over again, as if that will somehow give this all meaning. As if that will somehow bring him back to life.

Somewhere in the great distance, there is a soft voice rising from nothing. It is so far away thatMoses wonders if the very last strand of his sanity has finally been severed. But he knows that voice. It is _Tuya._ It is his mother. _It is both of them_, he realizes, intertwined into one voice that carries through the shifting of the golden sand, and its haunting tune wraps around his skin in a tender embrace. It feels like warmth. It feels like _love_. But it is so far from him, too far to cling to before it is gone.

_Moses._ They say, as they fade into a merciless memory. _Moses, my child. Moses._

“I hear her,” Moses breathes. “I hear her.”

But it is too late.

Light is breaking over the horizon, and the sun appears like a glorious song rippling across the grief-stricken air. But the cold remains. As it always will, until the vast and unforgiving darkness consumes Moses as well.

* * *

_Rameses’ soft cries echo from beneath the sheets of their bed. The two of them still share the same bedchambers, no matter the effort of their mother to coax them into sleeping alone. It is a normalcy that neither of them wishes to alter amid changing times and growing responsibility. _

_Moses is now nine years, and Rameses is eleven. Just on the cusp of entering the years of their youth from boyhood. They are both maturing, and they are both beginning to discover the true magnitude of the power they hold amongst those around them. It calls them into mischief more times than their father can tolerate._

_“Let me speak to father.” Moses says, moving to hop off the bed, his little legs wiggling his body to the edge. If he can speak to their father, Rameses won’t be in trouble any longer and they can go play in the Nile banks tomorrow morning. Mother has just begun allowing them to go there alone after their morning lessons._

_“No!” Rameses jumps up from underneath the blankets and grasps Moses’ wrists with a quickness that Moses didn't think his brother was capable of. His eyes are red-rimmed from his tears. “Moses, please don’t. That will only make him angrier. He’ll think that I’m not brave enough to speak to him myself. I must endure this punishment.”_

_“But this is my fault!”_

_“It doesn't matter, Moses! I’m oldest. It’s my responsibility to keep you out of trouble. You aren’t supposed to be the one influencing me to make bad decisions.”_

_Moses huffs out a sigh and flops back onto the bed. “Well that’s stupid.”_

_“Indeed.”_

_They lay in silence for a time. The sound of faraway locusts cricking their song against a sleeping Thebes. The dimming flicker of the torches a soothing pattern against the walls of their chamber, the tremulous light matching the soft, humming vibration of their timed inhales. Moses’ eyes are drifting closed, his brother’s warmth radiating beside him like a welcomed embrace. His mind is fleeing to a place of deep rest until he feels the bed shift and a soft breath close to his ear. “…Moses…”_

_“Yes, brother?” He murmurs, voice thick with sleep._

_“Will it always be like this?”_

_“Like what?”_

_“You and me,” Rameses says. Fear lacing the edges of his voice. “Together.”_

_Moses rolls onto his stomach to look his brother in the eyes. “Why wouldn’t it be?”_

_“…I don’t know.”_

_“Well it will. Rameses, we’re brothers.” Moses says, with all the certainty that a young child can encapsulate within his tiny form. “No one could ever tear us apart.”_

_Sometimes it feels as if Moses is the older brother, for Rameses is a slighter child than he. Prone to becoming too frightened, too overwhelmed with his surroundings. Reassuring Rameses is a daily endeavour. But it is one that he would endure over and over again just to keep his brother by his side._

_And besides, he happens to like being the ‘older brother’._

_“Brothers forever. Swear it.” Moses says._

_Rameses rolls his eyes, but his mouth is quirked up in a smile, his eyes glimmering in a way that always makes Moses feel like everything is going to be okay. Rameses leans forward and places their foreheads together, warm fingers of one hand placed firmly at the nape of Moses’ neck, the other hand crossing over his own heart, then reaching over to Moses and crossing it over his heart as well. “I swear it.”_

* * *

Moses runs through the bleeding halls, banishing every nature of thought from his spinning mind. Allowing subconscious memory to carry his feet across the limestone floors, a swift ease washing over his body as he sprints. His knees are close to buckling, but he pushes onward. His mind is utterly blank, but tears still fall down his cheeks in a steady stream. He cannot fall apart here. He must find somewhere else. A crook in the walls, a secret room; a void.

He runs for what feels like an eternity, each new hall a gateway to forbidden memories. Things he pushed so far into the back of his mind that he had forgotten them until now. His body is shaking, overwhelmed by the life he left behind, the people he did not allow himself to yearn for. And just two relentless words are repeating in his head, the only thing present inside him, tearing away at his sense until he is an open wound, until he is completely raw:  _He’s dead._

He cannot glance back to their days in the sun. For its beautiful warmth will shatter the man he has become, and he will crawl back into Rameses’ still arms, if only to feel his comforting touch once more.

And so, only when Moses has staggered his way out of the palace, across the courtyard of Bast, and down a hidden stairwell in a forsaken hallway of the crumbling city, does he let himself fall to his knees and weep.

* * *

The light from each Egyptian firstborn need not be stolen this night; for in a single, collective exhale, the entirety of the Nile dimmed in surrender. The Hebrews flee silently into the barren desert. A broken prophet is guiding their way, leaving in his wake a trail of forsaken tears.

A child trudges behind him. The young boy’s wails of grief are long since exhausted, yet those small eyes are filled with such venomous hatred that it rivals even the child’s great sorrow.

Clenched in the prophet’s dirtied, trembling fist, is a tarnished piece of fabric. This sacred cloth remains his only companion as he stumbles farther away from the corpse of the man he forgot to call brother.

He does not wipe the blood from his hands.

* * *

_end._

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thank you so much for reading! The fact that you made it all the way down here means the world to me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 
> 
> Continue reading below if you want to hear me blabber about the film because I am a crazed fanatic and have not been able to get the beauty of this story out of my mind since I was a small, helpless little child eating goldfish crackers on the floor of my living room staring up in awe at the magnificent scene unfolding before my very eyes:
> 
> Okay. So, I did a substantial amount of research on the type of crown/headdress that Rameses wears in the film, and (correct me if I’m wrong), it seems that they have drawn him to have a mix of two different styles. The Nemes headcloth is known to have the two flaps that come down on either side of the face, they extend and tie down the back, and the golden asp/cobra sits atop the brow. This is the exact style that Rameses wears in the film, and is on actual statues of Rameses II. That being said, the Nemes headcloth is striped with blue whereas Rameses' in the film is completely white aside from the golden snake and golden tie down his shoulder blades. The all-white is reminiscent of the Khat (also known as Afnet) headdress. The Khat headdress is known to have used simpler fabrics, thus, it appears white. Both of these two crowns are very similar, but the Khat does not have the two flaps that come down the front of the body and is tied at the back underneath a band (I believe it does not extend down the back), but it still has a golden snake above the eyes. I’m not sure why they did this, but the Rameses in the film seems to have the style and build of the Nemes crown while having the colour/fabric of the Khat crown. I was going to refer to the crown specifically by name but I didn't want to if it was not completely accurate, so I just stuck to ‘headdress’. Oooooor maybe I’m just terrible at research, hah. If anyone knows more about this subject please enlighten me in the comments, I am very interested!
> 
> Again, thank you for reading. :)
> 
> Also I realllllyyyy like comments! Hehe


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